


Wrong Channel

by Hekate1308



Series: The Crowley Chronicles [24]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 13, Fix-It, Gen, Human!Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: For a moment, just for a moment, Crowley is too confused to learn where he is and who is talking to him. The last thing he remembers is standing in front of Lucifer and plunging the knife into his gut so the boys can get away, and is that his heartbeat he can hear in his ears, the steady thump that’s been gone for centuries –Crowley survival AU.





	Wrong Channel

“There he is. Oh Great One, not feeling so great now, are we?”

For a moment, just for a moment, Crowley is too confused to learn where he is and who is talking to him. The last thing he remembers is standing in front of Lucifer and plunging the knife into his gut so the boys can get away, and is that his heartbeat he can hear in his ears, the steady thump that’s been gone for centuries –

“Well? Have we found our bearings?”

He looks up at the –

Asmodeus. Another Prince of Hell. Wonderful. As if Ramiel wasn’t bad enough.

And not only that.

He’s in Hell, with many of those who once were his minions watching him greedily.

Furthermore, he’s not only alive – he’s human. He’s human and he’s in Hell.

He really didn’t like the first time around that happened, the last thing he wanted was a repeat.

“Are you not going to say anything?”

Crowley decides he’s too old and tired to play games. He’s always known a hopeless situation when he’s seen one, and this is about as bad… standing in front of Lucifer in an apocalyptic waste land when he can control your meat suit.

So he says nothing. Let them laugh, let them cheer, he’s done with the lot of them. He sacrificed himself to save the Winchesters, and that’s that. Whatever comes now is nothing but a boring epilogue nobody will remember or even learn about.

Asmodeus sneers. “So you don’t have anything to say to me? I could imagine there are others you’d like to speak to.”

Consigned to his fate as he is, Crowley doesn’t like the expression on his face. He remembers it from the mirror. He just had a terrible idea how he can torture him.

“You know what, my friends, I just thought of something. Why just amuse ourselves by torturing the King to death? We can as well lean back and watch as others do so.”

Crowley expects hallucinations, or perhaps one of the demons who were always against his rule, but instead, Asmodeus flicks his wrists and Crowley’s thrown back on earth.

Quite literally. He lands on an empty field and needs a few moments to catch his breath before he staggers to his feet. Asmodeus has put him in the same ratty clothes Lucifer once forced upon him, and to the hunger, disorientation and shock he feels ashamed of his appearance.

He shakes his head; that’s not important right now. Asmodeus has a plan, and they’ll be watching him.

Is he going to send hell hounds after him? His favourites, maybe even Juliet?

No; that’s not enough. Someone like Asmodeus would want to bring the worst sentence upon him that –

Oh. His heart sinks as he realizes. Of course.

Asmodeus expects him to go running straight to the Winchesters, and to them slaughtering him.

How unoriginal. And yet, not without a certain logic. The boys were the closest thing he ever had to friends. Yes, they hate his guts, but –

Something heavy settles in his stomach as he contemplates that Asmodeus might well go by his own interactions with them. He has no idea how long he has been gone, but chances are they have already run into one another.

A part of him, a weak, desperate part that almost only ever seemed to make an appearance when he was with the Winchesters, hoped they would mourn for him.

Seems like the opposite is true.

Well then. He won’t make it easy for the black-eyed bastards, now that he’s back on earth. True, he pretty much consigned himself to his fate, but here he is, and if him living on makes them angry, that’s at least a reason to carry on.

So no looking for the boys. Yes, he’ll be alone, but for his newly human emotions, it is a comfort to pretend that he could just show up at the bunker and they’d take him in.

First things first.

He desperately needs something to eat and drink, and it’s going to be dark soon.

Good thing he’s always been talented at solving problems. He soon locates a nearby city, and if he has to commit a few small crimes…

He was the king of Hell. Any attempt at trying to be a decent person is doomed to fail anyway.

Three days later, he’s on the road in a stolen car with stolen clothes on his back and stolen money in his pockets.

He spends a few weeks just driving around until he catches himself searching the paper for demonic or ghostly activities, as if he’s a pet dog trying to find his owners even though it knows they’ll just beat him.

After that, he forces himself to settle down in a relatively big city where he can live anonymously.

He eventually decides to become a business consultant – not too difficult considering he was the king of the crossroads once. A job is soon found, and then he… lives his life.

It’s perhaps not an important life, or even one that matters, but he has an apartment, a job and he even can buy the good Craig now and then when he’s careful with his budget.

He doesn’t think much about the boys except when he does.

His colleagues are neither too friendly nor too annoying, a balance he can live with.

He’s safe and comfortable.

And he’s never been more bored.

His evenings at home begin to remind him of those long senseless meetings in Hell where no one would get what he was talking about.

Perhaps because of that, he almost accidentally starts a side business catering towards hunters.

He really shouldn’t have gone to that cemetery at night, but how was he supposed to ignore news of a ghost in his own city?

Another hunter is already on the trail, and that is how he meets Lizzie.

“Fergus Sheppard” he introduces himself. Somehow, he has ended up using his hated first name again, and he can’t even say why. Maybe as a tribute to his Mother? To Gavin? Thinking about it hurts too much and it won’t change a thing, so he usually avoids the subject.

She studies him. “Not a hunter, judging by your clothes.”

He has kept the excellent taste of his demon days, so he just shrugs. “No, but I am… hunter-adjacent, you could say. I found the case and there was no reason not to get rid of the ghost.”

She nods. “Say, “hunting-adjacent” – does that mean you can get me some protection boxes? For the really strong stuff. Mine are all occupied…”

“I am rather good at procuring things” he assures her, and within two days, Lizzie has what she needs.

It just spirals from there. Lizzie tells other hunters, shares his number, and soon his evenings are filled with handling requests from hunters all over America.

He figures it’s still far away from what the boys are doing.

Either way, he feels better doing this than he has since he woke up human.

Lizzie calls him regularly. He’s almost ready to think of her as a friend, only she’d hardly be that if she knew the truth.

Yet it is somewhat comforting, hearing news from the hunting world.

Inevitably, the boys’ names fall. “I met the Winchesters today! Can you believe it, Fergus?”

“I’ve heard of them” he mumbles.

“You better have! They’re freaking legends! Anyway, they even had the angel with them – although he’s human these days.”

“Castiel?” he asks.

“Yes. Knew you’d heard more than you let on. Seems like he died not so long ago and was brought back human. Looked happy enough, though.”

He feels many conflicting emotions at hearing that – he has gotten used to that. There’s pain, and grief, just for a moment, and also envy and jealousy because Cas wasn’t brought back by some devil-wannabe in order to punish him, but apparently God himself popped back down and resurrected him and now he gets to live with Sam and Dean and no one even thought of looking for Crowley in this mess.

“Fergus? You’ve gone quite.”

“Sorry. I’m a bit tired.”

She laughs. “I forgot. You’re trying to take over your company, aren’t you.”

He jumps at the chance to change the subject.

Sadly, with his emotions all over the place and his side business growing daily, he has overlooked a certain possibility.

It’s a text like any other.

_Hey, a hunter called Lizzie gave me your number in case I need anything. We need angel Feathers. Ready to pay._

He never asks for too much. Hunters have it bad enough with him forcing them to sell their house so they can kill monsters.

It takes a little longer to procure angel feathers instead of something more common like basilisk teeth, but a week later, their date is set.

He’s never had any misgivings of letting hunters in his apartment. It’s well warded, and there is nothing there to show who he used to be. So, really, the hunter who visits him has to have known him before… everything happened in order to recognize him.

Crowley freezes when he opens the door and Dean Winchester stands before him.

With his human reflexes, it’s small wonder he’s pressed against the wall in the next moment, a knife at his throat.

“Alright. Lizzie swears you’re legit, so I’m gonna take a chance and allow you five minutes to explain why your parading around in Crowley’s meat suit. And it better be a good one.”

“It’s rather difficult talking like this” he drawls.

Dean frowns and steps away.

Crowley wonders if the demons are still watching, and if they’re enjoying themselves.

If he were in their shoes, he would.

The open look on disdain in Dean’s face is almost too much.

He wonders when he became so weak.

“Look” Dean hisses, “I can bear the face, but if you keep imitating his mannerisms, I’m gonna cut your head off, no questions asked –“

That’s how much he is despised by the Winchesters. He offed himself for them, and Dean can’t even manage to hear him talk and move like himself.

Fine, then. This be the end.

He shrugs. “As you wish”. He’s using the old Scottish accent he spoke back in his first human life, and he forces himself to relax, to carry himself differently.

Dean squints at him (not quite unlike Cas would), then abruptly shakes his head. “Nope. That’s not it. You’re acting. Before, it was more…” he trails off and studies him. “Authentic…”

Crowley waits for the penny to drop.

“Crowley!?”

“In the flesh. Quite literally, these days.”

“So you’re human too?”

He nods. Undoubtedly, now comes the moment the demons have all been waiting for. Their former king being berated, insulted and degraded by the man he died for.

And Dean looks indeed annoyed as he strolls towards him, but instead of the expected blow, he chuckles and clasps his shoulder. “How long have you been back? Couldn’t pick up a phone, your Highness? Cas managed that just fine, thank God.”

“I – ahm – about a year” he replies, surprised it’s been that long.

Dean shakes his head as his hand falls away from Crowley’s shoulder. “I get you not wanting much to do with us, but still – one message would have been nice.”

“I’ll remember that” he says lamely. Because every time he imagined this scene (of course he did, even though he tried not to) he never pictured Dean being somewhat happy that he is back.

“Knowing you, you probably have some good alcohol lying around…”

“Craig.”

“Knew it.”

“So” Dean says after they’ve sat down at his kitchen table, “nice place you got here. And Lizzie says your business is booming?”

“I have been thinking about giving up my day job” he admits.

Dean nods. “She mentioned that too. Man, what an idiot I was. Fergus, too – Why, by the way?”

“Familiarity. So I would react to it appropriately.”

“Smart.”

“I do my best. I assume you still live in the bunker?”

“Yeah. Feel free to drop in anytime.”

Crowley would doubt his words, only that what follows next is an interrogation to make sure he has everything he needs. Does he have an anti-possession tattoo? How does he keep his place safe? Have the demons been after him? (That leads to an explanation about Asmodeus and Dean mumbling to himself about fixing Michael’s Lance soon) And anyway, is he sure he has enough money?

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry much about demons now” Dean finally tells him. “They got another civil war in Hell. Not everyone likes Asmodeus. Small wonder, considering they never realized what they had.”

Silence.

“Right” Crowley says eventually, “The angel feathers. Here –“

He gets them. Dean reaches out and nods. “Thanks, man. Some spells and their ingredients… Anyway, mind if I kip here tonight? I was going to get a motel, but…”

Crowley wouldn’t have believed that Dean trusts him enough to be unconscious around him, and yet he sleeps on his sofa that night.

“So” Dean tells him as they’re saying goodbye, “Don’t stay a stranger, you hear me? Just shoot me a text now and then so that I know you’re alright.”

“I will. Feel free to call if you need anything.”

Dean nods and leaves.

A few hours later Crowley gets a call from Sam and Cas, who need to hear him in order to believe Dean.

He doesn’t know it yet, but that phone call will start a chain of events that ends with him moving into the bunker six months later.


End file.
